


run, run, run away

by sunlightdances (glowinghorizons)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 10:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16831120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/sunlightdances
Summary: Dean calls you to go on a hunt he’d otherwise have to take solo. It takes quite a turn.





	run, run, run away

One minute you and Dean are standing stock still in the woods preparing for an incoming werewolf, ears perked for every small little noise, and the next you’re literally running for your lives.

“Come with me on this hunt, you said. It’ll be _fun_ , you said.”

“Are you going to do that the entire time?” Dean huffs, panting for breath as the two of you tear down a two-lane country road, trying to get back to the Impala before you get– eaten? You don’t really know how this particular monster likes to kill people.

“I mean, only until we both die, and then–”

“We’re not going to die.” You can _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “And after we’re _not dead_ , you’re going to see that I was right this entire time, and–”

You screech to a halt, causing him to run into your back. “You know, I should just leave you here.” You’re seething, glaring at him.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he bites back, tone flippant. “I’m too handsome for you to leave behind, anyway.”

“I could just _strangle_ you–”

A screech sounds from down the road, and Dean reaches for your forearm, dragging you behind him as he starts running again. “Promises, promises, sweetheart,” he calls, and you swear, you’re never going on a solo hunt with Dean for the rest of your life.

The Impala comes into view and Dean lets go of your arm as he practically leaps over the hood, Dukes of Hazzard style, and you’re struggling to get the door open as he starts the engine. “Dean,” you say in warning, yanking on the door. “ _Dean_ –” The sounds of whatever’s tailing you is getting louder, and you _can’t get in_.

He opens the door from the inside, and you jump in, the door not even closed as he guns it. “That was too fuckin’ close,” he whispers.

“So… not a werewolf. Also, you need to fix the door handle.”

“Definitely not a werewolf,” He agrees before shooting you an annoyed look. “There’s nothing wrong with Baby.”

“I almost got eaten.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“ _You’re_ dramatic–”

“Oh, good one!” He says, opening his mouth to fire back a retort when suddenly there’s a deathly loud screech as something makes contact with the roof of the car, and the car is spinning out of control, Dean’s wild eyes as he tries to steady her the last thing you see before your head smacks against the passenger side window and it all goes black.

.

.

“Shit, shit, shit–” Dean groans, as he comes to, immediately looking to his right, a swooping sensation in his stomach as he sees you, unmoving, a trickle of blood coming from your right temple. “Kid–” he reaches out, pain searing through his arm as he tries to get to you.

He finally gets enough energy to move, broken glass falling from his lap as he reaches for you, shaking your shoulder. “Kid, come on, wake up.”

You groan, the sound sending relief spiking through him, and when your eyes flutter open and land on him, he thinks it should be embarrassing how he feels like they’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Don’t worry, I’m not dying before I kick your ass.” You croak, and Dean grins, ruffling your hair.

“Hold this to your head,” he says, peeling his flannel off and wadding it up before handing it to you. “Gotta get back to the motel and check you out.”

“What the hell was that thing?”

Dean shrugs. “Didn’t see it on account of how I was knocked out for five minutes.”

You snort, and it’s almost like music to Dean’s ears, hearing that you’ve still got your sense of humor more relief that you’re not terribly hurt. “Floor it, will you?” You ask. “I feel like my brain is gonna leak out of my ears.”

He gets back to the motel in record time, wincing every time he hears another squeak from the Impala’s front end. The windshield is almost entirely blown out, and he knows the body is likely covered in scratches and dents.

You make a soft noise under your breath, and when he glances over, he can see you struggling not to make a sound. Your face is scrunched up in pain and he sees you taking controlled breaths, the sight of it breaking his heart just a little. He’s the one who asked – practically begged – you to come on this hunt with him when he should have just handled it alone.

In the parking lot, he finds a spot right in front of the room, and winces when he gets out of the car, his joints protesting at every moment. That pain his arm spikes again, and he pauses, gritting his teeth.

“Shoulder’s dislocated,” comes your voice from behind him. Dean startles, not having heard you get out of the car.

“Let me worry about you first,” he says, and you roll your eyes, heading to the motel room.

Dean takes a minute to look at the car, dreading the repair work he’s going to have to do, but then he sees the size of the scratches on the roof and realizes how close the two of you really came to being toast. “Jesus.” He whispers.

Turning on his heel, he heads into the room, cursing when he sees you struggling to get your shirt off without hurting yourself. “God dammit,” you whisper, and he takes a few quick strides over to help you.

“Stop moving.”

“I’m fine–”

“You have a head wound.”

“Really? I didn’t notice the blood–”

“Can we just–” Dean takes a deep breath, jaw clenching, “Can we stop fighting for like ten minutes while I get you sorted out?” He lets out his breath. “Need you to pop my shoulder, too.”

You don’t say anything, eyes on the floor, and again he feels guilt spear through him. Just one day. All he wanted was one day to spend some time with you, go on what he thought would be a fun hunt, and _maybe_ get the courage to stop being an asshole and finally tell you that he _likes you_ , dammit. Not this. Not this fuckin’ – pterydactyl or whatever the hell was chasing you.

“Any ideas?” He murmurs as he helps you get your shirt the rest of the way off, assessing the damage. You’ve got the head wound that he’ll need to stitch, and a few scratches on your right shoulder and side where the glass broke near your head.

“Um, it can fly,” you say, using your fingers to start listing, “Has pipes like a goddamn banshee,” you squirm as Dean parts your hair, trying to see where you’re bleeding from, “and is definitely some kind of nightmare come to life. A curse maybe? Could be a spell gone wrong.”

Dean hums in agreement, maneuvering so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, and he winces as he tries to work with his bad arm. He rifles through his bag until he finds his med kit, opening it and getting what he needs to disinfect and close your gash. “I’m sorry,” he says, as he starts stitching. He’s apologizing for the sting, but also that you’re even here in the first place.

“Not your fault,” you say automatically. “You were right, by the way.”

“What?” He stops, looking at you.

“Earlier, you said after we _didn’t_ die, I would have to admit you were right the whole time, that this wasn’t a werewolf.”

“Jesus Christ, kid. Like I give two shits about being _right_ when–”

You elbow him gently. “Trying to lighten the mood, Dean.”

He lets out a long breath. The whole day has been one argument after another, one round of bantering after another. He likes it, usually. You make him laugh, and your quick wit always keeps him on his toes. It felt _real_ though, on the way back to the Impala with that thing on your tail. Felt like you were _angry_ and Dean doesn’t know how to deal with that. When you’re annoyed? Sure. Mad? Not so sure.

“Could have gotten you killed.” He mutters.

“And that’s different from any other day… how?” You ask, wincing when he accidentally pulls too tight. He finishes up the stitches, reaching for some alcohol wipes so he can clean the blood off the side of your face. “Hey.” You say, gripping his wrist to stop him from moving. “Stop for a minute.”

.

.

Dean does ask you ask, giving you _the look_. The one where he’s humoring you, but not really listening to you at all. You can see it there, the guilt, brimming behind his eyes as he tries to shut you out.

“I’m _fine_.”

“Congratulations. I just gave you eight stitches.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, _mostly_ fine. Can you stop being so goddamn stubborn and just admit that neither one of us knew what we were in for before we came out here?”

“It’s my _job_ –”

“Mine too!” You protest. “Look, just shut up for a minute and let me do your shoulder, okay? It’s going to hurt.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he sits down on the bed so you have the height you need to do this. You tell him to count to three, and apply the pressure before pushing his shoulder back into place, a groan through grit teeth the only sign he’s in any pain.

After, you both sit there for a minute, trading sips of whiskey straight from the bottle. “So,” you say softly, “What do we do now?”

“Figure out what the hell that thing is, and kill it.”

“It’s what Dean Winchester does best,” you agree, and he can’t keep a straight face, a laugh escaping him as he wipes a hand over his face.

“Ah, shit.” He says when he relaxes. “Come here, kid.” He says as he makes room for you next to him on the bed, leaning against the headboard.

You slide next to him, fitting underneath his arm perfectly. He squeezes gently, and the both of you fall into a contented silence until you both fall asleep, propped up against each other shoulder to shoulder.

.

.

The next morning you wake up because the sun is streaming into the room in such a way that leaves it _right_ in your eyes and you groan, feeling your sore muscles scream in protest as you try to sit upright.

Some time during the night, you and Dean curled into one another, his arm over your waist and your hand resting over his heart. He makes a soft noise as you stir, and you try not to wake him up as you try to figure out how bad your head is going to hurt today as you try to hunt this thing.

“Stop moving,” he says, his voice raspy from lack of use.

“I feel like I got run over by a eighteen wheeler.”

“No, just some kind of fuckin’ dinosaur.”

“Come on,” you pull at his shoulder, trying to get him to sit up, “Up and at ‘em.”

While Dean gets in the shower, you inspect yourself in the mirror in the room, wondering if you just need to accept the fact that you’ll always look like you haven’t slept in days when you’re hunting with the Winchesters.

Dean comes out of the bathroom, steam billowing out behind him, and he meets your eyes in the mirror, frowning. “Don’t do that.”

“Excuse you?”

He waves a hand vaguely, “That thing you do. You look fine.”

You snort. “Gee, thanks, Dean.”

“That’s not–” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “That’s not what I meant.” He rubs his head with the towel before tossing it on an empty chair in the room. “You always– you always look good.”

You’re genuinely dumbfounded, trying to see what he sees. You’ve got dark circles, a few scratches on your face and a bruise at your temple. Your hair is a matted down mess, and somehow… no. You shake your head, trying to get rid of any thoughts that aren’t about the hunt you have to go on today.

“I appreciate it, Dean, but you don’t have to boost my ego like that.”

“Kid–”

“I gotta take a shower. Hope you didn’t use all the hot water.”

You push past him and shut the door behind him, trying to get rid of all these extra _feelings_.

.

.

When you come out of the bathroom dressed in clean clothes, your hair piled up on your head in a tight bun, Dean notices that you won’t meet his eye. _Great_ , he thinks _nothing like making it weird right before killing a fuckin’ monster_.

“Ready to go?” He asks, and you nod.

The Impala… well, she’s seen better days.

“Poor Baby,” you say, and Dean watches as you frown, running your fingers over the scratch marks.

He clears his throat, trying to figure out why the hell he feels _emotional_ seeing you sad about the damn car. “I called Sam while you showered. He’s got a few ideas and none of them are fun.”

“Do we even have anything big enough to kill that thing?”

Dean grins.

Your face falls. “You’re not serious.”

“Buckle up, sweetheart.”

.

.

Deja vu hits you like a freight train as you and Dean are off again, running as fast as one can possibly run with a rocket launcher strapped to their back.

“I hate you so much,” you say, and he actually laughs.

“You’re a terrible liar. That was badass, and you know it.”

“Then why are we running away _again_?”

He stops. “Good point.”

You bend over, hands on your knees, catching your breath and listening for any sign that that _thing_ didn’t actually die. You don’t see how - it was a direct hit from the rocket launcher right in the chest that sent it literally careening into a tree, one last screech before it went silent.

Dean is fidgeting, and you’re about to make fun of him for it before he beats you to the punch. “I– this might be the adrenaline, but I’m going to do something and I’d really like you to wait until afterwards before you punch me, okay?”

“You– what?” You ask, but your only answer is Dean taking two quick strides over to you until he can cup your face with his hands, sealing his mouth over yours.

He doesn’t relent - he kisses you like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do for the rest of his life, and practically bends you backwards with the force of it. You feel like fireworks are going off behind your closed eyes, and when he finally breaks away, both of you panting, all you can do is stare at him.

“I– sorry–”

“Is this because we almost died?”

He looks like you’ve slapped him. “No!”

“Because yesterday we couldn’t stop fighting, and then–”

“To be fair, we _never_ stop fighting. Doesn’t mean I don’t like you, or want you.”

You’re stunned. It’s not– it’s not like you haven’t noticed the way Dean sticks close to you, or how he looks at you sometimes when he thinks you’re not looking. It’s not like you’re not looking back the same exact way.

“Look, I wanted to hunt with you, just the two of us, so I could finally grow a pair and tell you how I feel. I’m not good at that. I know I’ve done it all wrong. I almost got you killed, and I’m pretty sure that’s not on the list of how to get a girl to date you–”

“You want to date me?!” Your voice is so high you almost don’t recognize it.

Dean shrugs. “I– yeah. I do.”

This time you’re the one who plants one on him, arms around his shoulders as you try to keep the both of you steady. He stumbles at bit but recovers well enough, his hands threading through your hair, being careful to avoid the neat row of stitches there.

“This doesn’t mean I’m going to let you give me any of your shit,” you whisper against his mouth, and you can _feel_ his smile.”

“Sweetheart, I’d hate it if you did.”

He leans down to kiss you again, and you’re struck by the absurdity of these entire two days. You can’t wait to tell Sam all about it.


End file.
